She colored. “I suppose I'm to blame for the way you treated Lord Courtland.”
“He is ill-suited to be your husband, a fact you would see quite plainly if you were looking through anyone’s eyes but your own.”
“Mine are the only eyes that matter.”
“Marrying him would be a mistake.”
“And who are you to decide for me?”
“Someone who cares about you.”
Leaning close, she studied him through reddened eyes. “If you meant those words, you would turn this carriage around, return me to the ball and never speak to me again.”
“I cannot do that.”
“Why not?” she cried as she yanked her hands from his and tossed them up in the air.
“For reasons I have explained, yet you refuse to comprehend.”
Her mouth gaped. “Comprehend? You shun me from the start, ambush me right after, glare at me, yell at me one minute then seem consumed by. . .whatever. . .the next. I never know what to expect when you're about! Will I be snatched into a private room or tossed over your shoulder for a proper scolding! Tell me, Your Grace, what am I supposed to understand from all of that?”
He dipped his head to hide his smile. “It was rather poorly done of me at times, was it not?”
“There’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Sophie,” he said, taking her hands again, his grip gentle but firm when she tried to pull away. His pressed a tender kiss against her knuckles.
“Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” he asked innocently, even as the wolf in him clamored to devour her.
“Stop.”
“Don’t stop?” He tilted his head to one side as he ran his finger along the inside of her hand.
“No,” she said, but she sounded less than convincing. “I mean—”
“Hush,” he said, pressing a kiss to the inside of her wrist. He heard her breath catch. Leaning forward, he took her lips in a gentle kiss. She responded with a hesitant sweep of her tongue over his. He felt the tentative caress in his groin, his cock bolting to attention like a man jolted from slumber. He rained kisses along her jaw, down her throat until he reached the swell of her breasts. His hands molded them, his fingers searching for her nipples through the layers of her gown.
As before, he wanted more. He inhaled and the scent of her fueled his desire until it would no longer be denied. He wanted her writhing and panting beneath him, needed her begging for release. With a groan, he knelt in front of her, pushing her gown up to her waist. She tunneled her fingers into his hair as she leaned back against the leather squabs. Tugging off her knickers, his fingers found her, warm and wet as he slipped one inside. When she arched back against the seat, he draped her legs over his shoulders and dropped nibbling bites along the inside of her thigh.
“Andrew.” The sweet sound of his name jerked his gaze to hers. He found her staring down at him, a siren whose fire burned hot as his. “How?” she asked, the word dying on her lips as he massaged her slick flesh. He was suddenly frenzied with the need to taste her. Leaning forward, he flicked his tongue over her clitoris, spreading her thighs wide when she moved to close them.
“Oh,” she gasped when he tugged her arse to the edge of the seat.
“Quit fidgeting and lie back,” he said in a gravelly voice. Then he suckled, her bittersweet taste sending his wits spiraling. He ran his tongue through her slit, wholly focused on her moans of pleasure and the feel of her sex against his mouth. He thrust his tongue deep inside, dragging a throaty cry from her that sent blood rushing to his cock. His hands moved up her waist, across her stomach, back down to the sweet spot at the junction of her thighs. Pressing his thumb against her softened flesh, he used his fingers to open her up. With his free hand, he slipped a finger inside her, then followed the movement with his tongue. He flicked it over her and she screamed his name.
The last of his control snapped like a twig.
Straightening, he unbuttoned his trousers. His aching cock sprang free, thick and erect. He pressed the tip of it against her while her body wracked with the last vestiges of orgasm. At her whimper, he paused. He moved to draw back, but tentative fingers wrapped around his rigid shaft. The tender touch brought a tear of pleasure to his tip.
“Please don't stop,” she said, wrapping her hand around him and stroking him guilelessly as she gazed up into his face.
“There is no turning back once we begin,” he said, half praying she would stop him. The other half was urging him on. He marshaled his control. As much as he wanted to bury himself to the hilt inside her, he knew he must be gentle.
“Come inside me,” she said in a voice that brooked no argument. “Now.”
“I just want to be certain. I don’t want to hurt you—”
“Do it,” she demanded, grinding against him. With no further argument, he pushed in. Her greedy, silken flesh pulsed around his, coaxing him until the need to move became overwhelming. He pressed in further, as slow as he could, until he reached the barrier of her maidenhead.
“This will hurt.”
“I don't care,” she said, shifting beneath him. “Please.” The word was a saber slicing through his control. With a single thrust, he broke through her maidenhead.
“Oh!” she cried, fingernails digging painfully into his arms.
He stilled, muscles rigid and shaking as her body clamped around him like a vise. “Sophie?” he asked as he listened to her broken breaths. Beneath him, she squirmed and tried to pull away. He grasped her hips and held them still. “Dammit, stop moving and give it a moment. I promise the pain will ease.” For once, she obeyed. He waited for a sign that she was ready. After a long moment, he felt her body soften and open for him.
“More,” she said, her hands roaming down his back, over his backside.
Torn between being gentle and the overwhelming need to lose himself deep within her, he stuck to long, unhurried strokes. He pulled out until he was almost completely unsheathed, then pushed back in again slowly. With every stroke, he moved deeper. Her tight flesh engulfed him, drew on him deeply as it wrapped around his cock and squeezed. She braced her hands against the back of the seat and ground her hips against his, her movements all the more sensual for their simplicity. With a groan that felt ripped from his throat, he slid his hands underneath her arse, unsheathing himself as he pulled them into the opposite seat, her legs straddling his. It wasn't the most graceful of moves, but he didn't care.
“Take your time,” he said, guiding himself to her entrance.
She took him in slowly, allowing the motion of the carriage to set the pace. Once seated fully within her, she arched back, a broken sigh of pleasure-pain escaping from her lips. He buried himself to the hilt, knowing he must be hurting her, but unable to consider retreat. He needed to fill her completely, to own her in every physical way. He lifted her up. She caught on quickly, years of riding astride obvious in the way she moved. She came down as he thrust up, matching his moderate rhythm with a frantic one of her own. His shuddering release came soon thereafter, and he worked her clitoris to bring her to orgasm.
“Andrew,” she said, writhing against him as she bit down hard on his bottom lip. The taste of blood mingled with the taste of her, a combination erotic and sensual. But it was the sound of her climax that caught his breath. She laid her head on his shoulder, breath hot against his neck as her body shook. Neither spoke for a long moment.
“Christ, Sophie.” He pressed a tender kiss to her forehead. She took a long, fractured breath and then giggled. The sound brought a grin of pure, boyish delight to his lips. “How's that for courtship?” he asked without thinking, then instantly regretted the quip.
“This is not a courtship.” The cutting words were whispered against his skin and followed with a soothing kiss.
“Not by society’s standards, but we shall be married nonetheless.”
She stiffened, sending his heart plunging directly into his stomach. “I am not marrying you
.”
Furious, he took her by the arms, his grip meant to punish. “The matter is not up for discussion, my lady,” he growled. Pushing off of him quickly, she moved to the other seat before he could think to grab her.
“I agree, it isn’t.” Her voice was calm as she smoothed her gown back into place. “I am not some simpering girl who equates sex with love, Andrew. I wanted this,” she waved her hand between them, “with you, but the act itself changes nothing.”
“You are ruined, god damn it!” he roared, slamming his hand against the side of the carriage. The conveyance slowed.
She gave a one-shouldered shrug. “So I am.”
“Honor demands that I offer for you.”
A look of disgust crossed her face. “Whatever man decided that a woman’s virginity was worth the price of marriage was both arrogant and daft.”
He glared at her.
“You can be angry all you want, but it changes nothing. And if I may, I'd like to offer a bit of advice. When you make your grand proposal to the next lady, leave the word ‘honor’ out of it.”
“I have no intention of marrying anyone else and you damned well know it,” he said through his teeth. “I took your innocence.”
“You didn’t force me to participate, therefore you took nothing.” Her composure was annoying.
“Your reputation will not survive another scandal,” he said, nearly ramming his fist through the roof. The carriage picked up speed.
“Unless you plan on marching in and announcing to the world what occurred here tonight, only the two of us will ever know.”
Teeth gnashing, he buttoned his trousers. “Are you so naive that you believe your status will not matter to your future husband?”
“Why? Because I am no longer pure?” she asked, spitting out the last as if it were a sip of soured milk. “If I choose to take a husband, it will be a man who does not require my innocence.”
Andrew forced himself to remain silent, literally bit his tongue to keep from flaying her with his words. With a roll of her eyes, she turned her gaze out the window. After several tense minutes, the carriage rolled to a halt.
“Don't forget these,” he said, tossing her knickers at her.
“There is no need to be boorish,” she said, crumpling them up and stuffing them into her reticule.
Ignoring her, he leaned over and opened the door. “Jonathan will ensure you return to the ball safely.”
“You aren't coming?” she asked, sounding annoyed.
“Get out, Sophie, before I do something we both regret.” Her eyes flashed but she exited the carriage without responding. He did not move, was unable to do anything other than wrap his fingers around the edge of the seat. The smell of her permeated the air; her moans seemed to echo in the darkness. He had no idea how long he sat there before Jonathan rapped on the window. “Where to, Your Grace?”
“Home,” he grumbled. “For God’s sake, Jonathan, take me home so I can escape this madness.”
* * * *
“Would you ring for tea, Gracie?” Sophie asked as she entered her bedchamber.
“Yes, my lady.”
Her body ached in a hundred different places, as much from keeping control of her emotions as their exertions in his carriage. She sighed as she struggled out of her gown. After returning to the ball, she had gone immediately to the ladies retiring room. It was there she’d noticed the crimson stain on her chemise and the reality of what she had done settled in. She had no idea how she’d managed through the rest of the evening. All her life, she had imagined losing her virginity to a man she adored in their shared bed. Never once had she envisioned losing it inside a conveyance to a man she could not stand. She headed into her bathroom and stripped off her stained underclothes, then slipped them beneath a towel. Once Gracie was dismissed for the night, she would burn them.
She wrapped a peach silk robe around her body with a grimace. If it weren’t so late, she would order a hot bath and soak her aching muscles. Staring out the window over the lawn, memories of their coupling haunted her—the primitive desire on his face; the taste of his sweat as she nibbled at his body; the feel of his lips as they claimed hers in a searing kiss; the ragged sound of his breathing as his seed filled her.
And lastly, his harsh tone as he forced her to leave. Get out, Sophie, before I do something we both regret. Never had her name sounded so horrible, so tormented. She considered the threat in his parting words as she flopped onto her bed. Gracie arrived with the tea service and set it on the bedside table.
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
“No, thank you, Gracie. Pray, get some sleep. I will see you in the morning.” Gracie curtsied then exited the room, leaving Sophie alone with her thoughts.
How the devil was she going to get out of this mess?
Andrew could make her life a living hell just by hinting at the truth. If Alexandra found out what happened, and that Sophie had denied her brother a second time, she would never forgive her. And Simon. Oh, heavens. Simon would force her hand, as would her mother, Louise.
Thanks to Sophie's temper, she had alienated Lord Courtland, who had been nothing but kind to her from the start. She drummed her fingers against the counterpane, trying to think of a way to get herself out of the mess she had created. She would have to confront the lion in his lair and put an end to his foolish ideas once and for all; before he started talking.
But would he even listen? She humphed. “Not to the reasons I've already given him.”
You could tell him the truth, her inner voice whispered.
“And what is the truth?” she asked, yawning as she burrowed under the covers. Exhausted, she closed her eyes. A good night's rest would clear her mind, which she would need if she intended to confront him. Well, rest and a miracle, she thought, drifting off to sleep.
Chapter Fourteen
At seven o’clock the next morning, Andrew met Simon at Tattersall's to view the team he'd been itching to purchase. The two men watched from the edge of the arena as a few of the horses were exercised. “I think for once, your enthusiasm is completely justified. I don't think I've ever seen a team quite like them. Are either of the stallions gelded?”
“No. Hence my urgency in finalizing the transaction.” Simon made a disgusted sound. “The seller said he received an offer from Bottley at the same time he received mine. Apparently, the man planned to give the mare to Lady Abigail as a wedding gift.”
“Lady Abigail?”
“They are to be married. Haven't you heard?”
A profound sense of relief washed over him. “No, but I won't pretend to be disappointed.”
“Finally realized you would not suit, eh?” Simon asked with a smug grin.
“Something like that,” he said, changing the subject by pointing across the arena. “That one is going to need an experienced hand.”
Simon made a noise that was half-laugh, half-scoff. “If I can handle Sophie, I can handle a rowdy mare.”
“Speaking of,” he said, using Simon's mention of Sophie as a segue to relay his intentions. “I realize this isn't the proper way to ask for permission to court the sister of a friend, but. . .” He watched as Simon absorbed his words, bracing himself for the possibility of a tirade.
“You can't be serious,” he said, looking at Andrew as if he had sprouted a second head. He did not appear happy.
“I assure you, I am.”
“You want to court my sister?” At Andrew’s nod, Simon regarded him suspiciously for a long moment.
“What are you thinking?” he asked, eager to have the matter settled.
“Never mind. It doesn't matter.” A long pause and then, “I admit, I find myself curious to know how this possible courtship came to pass?”
Andrew shrugged. “It just happened.”
Simon's curious gaze turned scrutinizing. “Given the two of you do not share a friendly past, I'm afraid you'll have to do better than ‘it just happened.’” Andrew forced himself to mai
ntain eye contact, but couldn't stop from shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The movement, imperceptible as he tried to make it, did not go unnoticed. “Is there something more you wish to tell me?”
Not wanting to risk accidentally blurting out the truth, Andrew simply shook his head.
“Do you love her?”
The question caught him off guard. Did he love her? He thought so, but if that were true, why did he feel as if the air was being sucked from his lungs? “I am—”
Simon held up a hand. “I retract the question. Is she ruined? Because if she is, it won't matter whether you love her, hate her or otherwise. You'll be married by week's end.”
Knowing Simon would consider even a second of hesitation an affirmation, Andrew wasted no time responding. “What sort of man do you think me?”
Simon considered him for a long moment before raising his hands in surrender. “Apologies. My mother's nagging will not stop until Sophie is married and gives her a grandchild. She's dismissed every gentleman I've suggested, refused to give over in the slightest. You don't strike me as the sort to risk rejection a second time, which means you must feel confident that your affections will be returned.”
He shrugged. “We have been able to put our differences aside.”
“Which doesn't change the fact that she does not, by her own words, wish to wed.”
“People can change, Simon.”
“Not Sophie. Never once has she wavered, regardless of what I have said or done, so you’ll have to forgive my curiosity. Her steadfast refusal to marry has flown out the window within a month of your return. Surely you can understand why my suspicions are roused.”
“Your low opinion of me is less than flattering.”
“My opinion of you is as high as ever. It's just,” he said, his jaw working between sentences, as if he was fighting against saying what he really wanted to say. “Sometimes I think this whole thing would be easier if she was ruined. At least then she couldn't object to me marching her down the aisle. ”
Andrew chuckled, knowing the words were born of desperation and not truth.
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